


Lines in the Sand

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I mean...the 'comfort' part comes later, Keith as a science fiction writer, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Keith struggles to move on after Shiro is lost on the Kerberos mission. When books no longer provide an adequate escape, Keith turns to writing, creating a world for himself wherein Shiro is still alive.





	Lines in the Sand

Before Shiro left for quarantine, Keith gave him his father's copy of _Foundation_. It was a weatherworn slump of a book by then, the pages heat-stained and crinkled from years of sun and pinching fingers. It smelled like the desert.

“This counts as a crew care package, right?” Keith had said. “Should help with the boredom.”

Like Shiro would get _bored_ on the first manned flight to Kerberos. Keith knew Shiro like the back of his hand; when he wasn't actively flying, he'd would be glued to the shuttle windows like a bug to flypaper, cataloging star systems and asteroid types.

It was to Keith's great surprise that Shiro brought up _Foundation_ in their first video chat. The two fell into a discussion of psychohistory; the integration of cigars and misogyny into 246 th century space culture; the criteria for “relevant information” in a proposed Encyclopedia Galactica. Shiro had left the chat laughing.

Two months later, he was pronounced dead.

 

 

_Pilot error._

Keith claws another book off his shelf. He flips to the first page, kicking back into the lumpy embrace of his dad's couch.

Utter bullshit.

Keith has an hour to kill before his shift at Amarillo General Store. He reads the first paragraph of Lois McMaster Bujold's _Barrayar_ over and over again until the words turn to sludge in his head. Keith steeples the book like a tent over his nose.

Before the Garrison, books were Keith's Wonderland; his gateway to the wide open freedom of outer space. These days, every loyal hero boasts Shiro's buzzcut, his warm eyes. The galaxy is no longer a place of escape, but a yawning tomb.

Keith groans into _Barrayar_ 's spine.

“Everything's fucked,” he tells the ghost of Bujold. Keith's voice is muffled by the pages and raspy from disuse. Keith hasn't done a lot of talking outside the mandatory “paper or plastic?” and “have a nice day” lineup since he left the Garrison.

 _Pilot error_ , Keith thinks.

Yeah fucking right.

Maybe he should go outside; bike around on Red. Ruffle the sweat out of his clothes. Keith hasn't had the chance to drop by the drycleaners, and his jacket smells like a bad after-party.

Keith sighs and shuffles off the couch, placing _Barrayar_ on the coffee table. Anything's better than lying around feeling sorry for himself.

 

 

Amarillo General doesn't require a uniform outside of the company apron, so Keith gets to show up in his wind-rumbled T-shirt. Keith parks Red outside with a minute to spare; he ambles through the store's double doors, throws on his too-cheerful yellow apron, and tag-teams Rachel off her post on lane 3. Rachel shakes her head at Keith's scraggly hair. She snatches her purse and makes a beeline for the break room.

“I can take whoever's next,” Keith says. He flicks the switch on his sign pole; a light pops on, and a few guests trail over from lane 2.

It's an ordinary shift. Keith spots a few of his regulars: the mustached ginger who always buys a mountain of obscure foreign foods; the younger British woman with a mouse trinket on her wallet. A newcomer snaps at Keith when her coupons fail. And then, an hour before his shift ends, someone calls out:

“Hey! I'd recognize that mullet anywhere!”

Keith turns from fluffing out his plastic bags. There are two Garrison students in his lane: One sports an orange headband, the other a grey and pea-green coat. The first is busy loading fresh produce onto the aisle belt. The other is positively bouncing in his shoes.

“So this is where you've been, man!” the excited one says. “I kind of wondered, after you disappeared.”

Keith's brow furrows. “Do I know you?”

The guy looks thrown. He raises his hands in an “are you kidding me” gesture. “Uh, yes?” he says. “The name's Lance? We were in the same class at the Garrison.”

There's a beep as Keith slides a pear over the scanner. Fuck; he hasn't memorized the pear code yet. “Really? Are you an engineer?”

“No, I'm a pilot. Hunk's the engineer.” Lance gestures to his friend, who gives a mock salute. Keith's face remains blank.

“Unbelievable,” Lance says. He crosses his arms. “Lance and Keith, neck and neck...we were rivals!”

“Whelp. Not anymore.” Keith flips through his produce code pamphlet. That's right; 3013. “Unless you decide to drop out and become a cashier. Did you want paper or plastic for these?”

“Paper would be great,” Hunk says.

Keith crinkles open a bag. “Did the dorm regulations change? How are you gonna' store all this without a fridge?”

“Three words: Knox Electric Cooler. I keep it under my bunk.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lance persists, over the chitchat. “You were like, the best pilot in our class. You even beat Shiro's record on the sim.”

Keith's whole body frizzles up at Shiro's name. Hunk seems to catch the look behind Keith's eyes; he reaches out to grasp Lance's shoulder. “Didn't you say you wanted to buy some gum, Lance?” he offers.

Lance turns his attention to the candy display along the left side of the aisle. He sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

“I can ring it up for you in a separate transaction,” Keith forces out. He piles the last orange atop Hunk's bag of produce. “$20.25 is your total. Are you paying with cash or a card?”

 

 

 

Keith's dad, Bradley, didn't talk much about Keith's mom. They never found her body.

It was obvious when Brad sat up there on the roof of their house, his gaze trained on the horizon, obligatory beer can plinking by his side as it bloated in the sun. He still thought she was alive out there, somewhere.

As a kid, Keith would sit with his father on the roof. The two would lean back on the dusty tiles and trade stories about work and school...Flick peanut shells off the roof as they dug through a bag of Planters.

Then Keith got older, and he woke up from the fairy tale. His father stayed on the roof.

Keith used to resent him for that unshakable faith. He thinks he understands, now.

Keith doesn't have a dad to keep him company these days, so he brings along a copy of _Dune_ to his favorite lookout spot, a gnarled pile of rocks on the edge of the quartermaster formation, and plops down to read.

“Hope clouds observation,” Herbert writes.

“Maybe the real view's worthless,” Keith snaps. He clicks his heels against the rocks. The Reverend Mother was right anyway.

There's a flash in the corner of Keith's eye.

Keith lowers his paperback. He squints down into the canyon below. The sunset carves a yellow line down the canyon walls, flickering as it catches on something fast-paced and metal. A craft winds down the rocks; it whips up a trail of dust and debris that spins outward like a tube wave, fanning out to paint the rabbitbrush a dirty brown color.

Keith stuffs _Dune_ into his satchel and hops on his hoverbike.

The rider below has a head start, but Red could beat out a race car. She was his mom's pet project back in the day; Keith's dad had laughed, recounting the times she'd gone into town for groceries and come home with scrap mill rotor blades under her arms, or showed up late to dinner parties with her hands gloved in motor oil. Supposedly his mom had left the bike unfinished. Keith scoffs at the thought. If Red were any more perfect she would probably cause some kind of cosmic distortion. Space-time couldn't handle her elegance.

A gust of wind catches Keith from the side. He shakes his bangs out of his face. There's another sparkle of sunlight as the rider ahead ducks through a canyon arch.

If Keith wanted to, he could cut the rider off at the next bend--but he hangs back. Keith doesn't want to scare this person; he wants to see what they're up to.

Keith watches as the rider passes under the arch, then veers along the wall of the canyon. The dirt contrail thins, and Keith gets his first real look at the rider's craft. It's a dented hoverscooter; the kind they rent out to tourists and students downtown. What's this guy doing so far out of town with the hovertech equivalent of a tricycle? No one but Keith and a few eccentric hikers venture out here; the tourists stick to the trails, the thrill-seekers to the ravines.

Keith snorts. Maybe the rider's lost—or high. Probably a combination thereof.

The stars start to peak out from behind the hills. At last the rider grinds to a halt along the edge of a sandstone boulder. They hop off their hoverscooter with an air of nonchalance, toeing down the kickstand, and pause to rifle through their leather backpack.

Keith switches gears. He brings Red down to preschool crosswalk speed and approaches the rider from the shadows. The rider shakes a canister out of their backpack, none the wiser, and saunters up to a plane of sandstone. There's a fizz. A streak of blue blossoms across the rock's surface.

Spraypaint. They're a tagger.

Keith feels his shoulders droop. How dull. He's only ten yards from the rider, so he calls out from his hoverbike:

“Hey!”

The rider cracks around so fast Keith swears he hears the air splinter. The spray canister flies from the rider's fingers; a cry of “Que coño!” pings off the rocks.

It's Lance. Keith forces down a surprised noise.

“What the heck, man!” Lance splutters. His hair is a mess from the wind. Lance scrambles to retrieve his paint canister, then pauses mid-stoop. “Wait,” he says. “Keith?”

Keith raises his hands in mock surrender.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Lance demands. He stands fully. “Did you—did you _follow_ me?”

Keith makes a valiant effort to derail the conversation: “You can't spraypaint here. It's state property.”

Lance won't be distracted. “I knew it!” he declares. “You _do_ remember me!”

“I remember you from the store.”

“Nope!” Lance throws a finger towards Keith's chest. “Too late, Keith; the truth's out. I'm your greatest rival. You may have left the Garrison, but you're still determined to one-up me!”

Keith flicks his rotor blades to high gear.

“Bye, Lance,” Keith says. He pivots. Dust billows up from the desert floor, buffeting Lance's loose-fitting sports shirt.

Keith speeds away down the canyon trail, not once looking over his shoulder.

“Catch you later!” Lance calls.

Keith grimaces. He definitely won't.

 

 

Keith's way home from work brushes Garrison property. Sometimes he'll take a detour and ride his bike along the line of the barracks—close enough to see the students sneak out at night, but not so far as to violate his terms of suspension.

Keith hates the Garrison's stuffy policies. He hates the way the administration handled Shiro's case. But the Garrison gave Keith Shiro, for however short a time. He visits, and sticks his toes in the dirt, and remembers the times he and Shiro walked together through the sagebrush, startling grasshoppers out from the rocks. Keith takes in the air and the sky and basks in the quiet memory of textbooks and cafeteria coffee.

One night, on his way home from a long shift, Keith spots someone on the roof of the Garrison. Keith slows Red to a steady amble. The desert bushes swirl under the gentle “swoop swoop” of Red's rotor blades; his bag of drycleaned clothes swings to and fro from its clip in Red's basket. The figure bobs and weaves across the line of the roof, a tiny shadow against a backdrop of dusky blue clouds. They're too small to be a guardsman, Keith thinks. Too nervous to be a lookout. Keith is reminded of the pigeons who flitter about the bus shelters, dancing between commuters' shoes in pursuit of McMuffin crumbs.

A light catches on the planes of the person's—a boy's?—face. The glare of a laptop screen softens as the figure lowers the brightness level.

Keith stifles a sneeze. There's too much pollen in the air. He brings Red back up to speed and proceeds to the main road.

A minute later, he spots a blue lion tag on a boulder.

 

 

 

There's a big sale at Amarillo General.

Keith wants to merge with the floor.

Keith's lane is bloated like a clogged artery. His coworkers won't respond to his blinker. The chip reader is dead. Children are screaming.

“Would you like paper or plastic?” Keith asks over the chaos.

“Paper, please.”

Keith stuffs a bag of dog food under the mouth of the scanner. He swipes clear a parade of lightbulbs, granola bars and various toiletries. The customer watches with a critical eye as Keith adds up her discount codes, arms crossed over her fan-tousled overshirt.

“Your total is $40.30,” Keith says. “Cash or card?”

There's a crack nearby. Keith doesn't look up as a sunblock advert collides with the floor.

“Cash,” the customer says. She fists over a wad of tens. Keith un-crinkles the bills; he dispenses the woman's change. A canister of sunblock rolls out from behind lane 2. The customer snatches her bag from the counter and stomps out the door.

“Thank you for shopping at Amarillo General,” Keith says to no one. He scrambles to scan the next slew of products—a line of trinkets and shampoo products. A box of Altoids tumble from Keith's fingers. It falls amidst his nest of plastic bags; Keith curses.

“Sorry,” Keith hisses. He fishes through his bags. A customer grumbles somewhere down the line.

“Don't trouble yourself,” Keith's current customer says. “I'll get another one.” Keith recognizes her voice: It's the British woman with the mouse wallet. She reaches over the belt and snags a second Altoids box from the candy display.

Keith straightens. He scans the new Altoids box with a loose gesture.

“Paper or plastic?”

“Plastic, please.”

There's a rattle as Keith picks up a box of hair pins. He realizes that his hands are shaking.

The customer must notice too, because she makes a sympathetic noise.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

Keith looks up. There's pressure behind his eyes.

A cell phone rings in the other lane. Cart wheels squeak against the polished market floor. Three teenagers laugh at bad tabloid titles.

The customer's brow furrows. Keith's shirt collar prickles the skin of his neck. His hands convulse around the bag rack.

“I—” Keith beings. He swallows. “I gotta' go.”

Keith doesn't remember what happens next. He blinks and suddenly he's hunched over Red's handlebars, spilling out of the parking lot in a whirlwind of plastic bags and cigarette butts. A man is yelling at Keith for cutting off his car. Red's rotorblades stir up Keith's apron as he ascends. He speeds away down the back roads, over the tangled northside arroyos, until the traffic noise fades and falls away to empty air.

_Are you all right?_

Keith grits his teeth. He crosses over the last line of houses; he's greeted by a wall of wind as he enters the desert. Hot dust scratches Keith's cheeks. Red's engine sounds like a growl. Keith blinks the grit from his eyes, and directs his bike along the curve of the ravine, towards his shack.

Keith needs a way out, but the sky's dead. His books are empty.

Keith thinks about the Garrison. He thinks about the boy on the roof, and the blue lions on the rocks.

When Keith gets home, he slams the door shut behind him, stalks over to his coffee table, and picks up a pen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmmm...what's going on here?  
> (✿¬‿¬)
> 
> Things that survived the time jump from our time to Keith's:  
> Product codes  
> Other various supermarket transaction stuff  
> Knox coolers  
> Planters Peanuts
> 
> Things that didn't survive the time jump from our time to Keith's:  
> The penny  
> Lois McMaster Bujold
> 
> I feel like the Garrison would be based in like...New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, or Wyoming. But I put it on the outskirts of Amarillo, TX so my Texan!Keith headcanon could survive lol.
> 
> More to come later! HOW ABOUT THOSE SDCC VIDS? I'm gonna' lose my fuckin' MIND. I didn't think the creative team would actually show Keith mourning Shiro (I'm a pessimist lol) but...HOLY CRAP did they dwell on Keith's anger and betrayal and determination and aaaaaa. I'm a puddle on the floor. That moment when the team stepped up to comfort Keith...? I honestly got teary-eyed. I'm such a sap! 
> 
> This chapter's song recs:  
> How to be Alone - Allison Weiss  
> Addict with a Pen - 21 Pilots  
> So Long - Jenny Owen Youngs


End file.
